Green Dawn (Part 1)

I won’t lie, I didn’t like my odds.

I awoke the morning of St. Patrick’s Day with a serious buzz. The night afternoon before I had met up with Jay Swag in the South Side to watch some of the NCAA tourney games, and over the course of the next several hours we threw back lots of liquids and zero solids (unless you count the occasional crunched-on ice cube). Now, at 6:30 a.m. on the biggest Saturday of the drinking season, I shut off a blaring alarm clock and then very nearly tumbled over my dresser and into my clothes hamper. Yayyy…

I managed to get some toast and about half the contents of a 64 oz bottle of Gatorade into me by the time Tony arrived to pick me up (my final preparations for the onslaught ahead included sliding an airplane bottle of Jameson into one of the front pockets on my jeans and a bottle of 5 Hour ENERGY into the other). I felt as though I had successfully neutralized the prior day’s intoxication, but I was weary of the hangover lurking in the shadows. As Tony and I strolled past men and women (young, hot, scantily-clad women, mind you) adorned in green regalia—much like ourselves—on our way to his truck, our planned stop at the Wendy’s drive-thru looked like a glimmering oasis ahead in the distance.

We walked into Swag and Mitch Canada’s Mt. Washington home around 8:45 a.m. (we were running late—as was Swag), carrying Wendy’s bags and cups, as well as our boozy hopes and dreams. Swag was restlessly pacing about the living room and dining room, still quite drunk from our adventures the previous day. While Tony sat down to eat his breakfast (I polished off mine in the truck within 10 minutes of leaving the drive-thru), I poured the Jameson into my medium Wendy’s cup of Coke to kick things off, announcing, “I’m going to make my Coke ‘Irish’.”

“I take offense to that,” quipped Tony, one of the few people in our crew who are actually of Irish descent.

We (Tony, Swag, Mitch, our buddy “Specs”, and me) waited another 20 minutes for Belle to finally arrive, during which time Canada and Swag did a shot of moonshine, and the four of us who aren’t Swag took bets on exactly what time the man who is Swag would pass out (I guessed 1 p.m., Canada and Specs said 4 p.m.). Once our homegirl joined us, our intrepid six began the trek to Shannon’s apartment, site of her annual party.

The journey, a 15 minute walk across the concrete wilds of Mt. Washington, felt somehow Tolkien-ish. Halfway up Swag & Canada’s street, a small dog with a bright green faux hawk ran out to yip at us. All of us (save for Swag, who was uneager to provoke the probation gods) sipped from cans of Miller Lite along the way. Belle’s “monthly visitor” was in town, which supplied a seemingly constant stream of jokes from all of us—including her (coolest chick ever?).

• The day before, Swag had posted a picture on Belle’s Facebook page of a man with blood all over his face and the accompanying text, “A real man loves his woman every day of the month.”

• Canada and I found ourselves recalling his housemate’s fate last year, when he fell down multiple times along Carson St. and came home looking like he’d gone 12 rounds with Tyson. “Hey Jay,” I called up to Swag as he walked near the front of our group, “You may not be loving Belle tonight, but you’re still going to end up with blood on your face!”

• After another salvo of jokes by Swag, Belle let her irritability speak for her. But Swag was ready.

Belle: “SHUT UP!”
Swag: “STOP BLEEDING!”

• We passed two random girls as we walked up Shannon’s street, one of them dressed St.-Patty’s-sluttily. Swag engaged them in a little small talk as we passed each other, to which they replied, “Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” Swag’s response? Pointing towards her, he said, “Belle’s on the rag!”

Walking into Shannon’s place on the morning of St. Patrick’s Day is like walking into your grandmother’s house on Christmas morning: warm, inviting, lots of food, and lots of festive people that feel like family. Not to mention, a shit-ton of booze. We exchanged greetings and brothers-in-arms terms of endearment with Entertainer, Shannon, Rackt, TJ, Chappy, and Affliction, as well as the various other guests in attendance. At its height, the party probably featured 30 to 40 people, including Dupa, Smashley, Prince of Ligonier, and Mrs. Prince. Thanks to the unseasonably pleasant weather—mid-70s and sunshine all day—Shannon was able to set up beer pong and cornhole in the parking spaces behind her building. Once again, though, she left Entertainer in charge of beer. And while Sam Adams Octoberfest is delicious, it doesn’t quite fit the motif on March 17th. But, while out-of-season, it was a far-superior option to the case of Pabst Blue Ribbon Light that our buddy proudly iced down in the driveway. He laughed with the self-satisfied bawdiness of a Disney villain as we cursed at him.

After a round of Car Bombs, conversations about vajazzling, two rounds of Jell-O shots, games of cornhole, Google’d pictures of vajazzling, and TJ making a drunken bet with Swag about whether Matt Forte would be wearing a Bears uniform in the 2013 season, the bulk of us decided it was time to find our way to Redbeard’s. Canada and Belle stuck to the bar; TJ, Affliction, Chappy, Swag, Rackt, Specs, and I grabbed a table in the back. Not long after, we were followed by Dupa, Prince, and their ladies. Just as quickly as we put in drink orders, though, we were down a man. TJ, who had been drinking straight from a bottle of Parrot Bay for most of the morning, was dead in the water. He held his face in his hands for several minutes, then stood up and made that familiar, defeated walk to the men’s room. He had made the suddenly common mistake of not eating anything before or during his drinking, and now his booze-soaked stomach was seeking justice. When I finished my chicken tenders and my beer, I found him outside; while Rackt kept a watchful eye on him and called someone to come pick them up, the homie sat on the sidewalk in a heap, with his knees drawn up, his back against the building, and his head resting on his folded arms.

With two down, we decided it was a good idea to get a move on, lest the sandman seize an opportunity to claim another victim. The couples (Dupa, Smashley, Prince, Mrs. Prince) stayed at Havana Lounge, a small Cuban-themed bar across the street from Redbeard’s, but the other eight soldiers headed towards the Incline. Unfortunately, though, there was a line stretching up the street from the doors, and someone ahead of us said it would be a 45 minute wait. The only XX-chromosomer among us grabbed the reigns; there would be no waiting, only action. Belle took charge of her seven man battalion and led us down a path and roadside that runs to Station Square at the foot of the imposing hillside.

[To be continued...]

"Shit Me, I'm Kiss-Faced"

The king is back.

Forgive me for feeling boastful. But the feat of lasting over 12 hours on St. Patrick’s Day is fairly impressive for anyone; for someone with my recent St. Patty’s Day history, it’s a borderline miracle.

Pittsburgh’s St. Patty’s Day Parade was held this past Saturday; every year, the city erupts into a boozer’s paradise on this day of revelry. Despite thinking that I had somewhat redeemed myself for my 2007 performance by lasting until around 8 pm last year, I received a steady flow of teasing, jokes, and pessimism (i.e.—hating) from friends in recent weeks. In the end, though, I outlasted damn near all of them. To quote Stewart Gilligan Griffin, “Victory is mine!”

We began at Shannon’s apartment on Mt. Washington, as has become tradition. TJ was in attendance and in the zone for his first St. Patty’s Day in Pittsburgh—even though he was taking pulls from a bottle of Parrot Bay, and nothing else. Not from the multiple bottles of Jameson on hand, not from the Smithwick’s that T.C. had brought with him, not from the chilled cans of Guinness; not even from the keg of beer with a tap set up on the deck railing. He may be from Chicago, but sometimes the guy is a little more South Beach than South Side. He did manage to throw back a Jell-O shot, but…

When we walked in around 10 a.m., the kitchen was full of people hoisting the day’s first round of Irish Car Bombs in the air. The traditional shot apparently kicked in pretty quickly for the party’s hostess, and this was ever so apparent as she prepared another round. Car Bomb vets will tell you that the “bomb” is one part Jameson and one part Bailey’s Irish Cream in a shot glass, which is then dropped into a glass of Guinness. Shannon, however, was pouring the Jameson directly into the glass of Guinness, and then pouring a full shot of Bailey’s to drop. When I and another person attempted to correct her, she paused; then, in a measured, chilly rhythm reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter, she responded, “These are…Irish Bombs…this is how I make them.”

We didn’t push the issue any further.

One of my friends (we’ll just go with the alias “Gaelic Gangsta”, or “GG”, for him) was on hand without his significant other, who had to work. She had, however, bought him his own personal 375 ml bottle of Jameson to bring, and given him only one instruction for the day: “No fighting.” Now, to look at GG—replete with spiky blonde hair on top of a round face that’s adorned with glasses, and his wacky, boisterous laugh that resonates off walls at all hours of the day—you may think his dear fiancée to only be joking. Surely you would assume that this fun-loving 5’9” man of modest physical conditioning, wearing a green, white, and black argyle sweater vest, is not someone who is likely to get to swinging.

Alcohol is a hell of a drug.

GG, who allowed me frequent swigs of his Jameson bottle, had a pair of green gloves with him, and I borrowed one of them. Wearing it and a pair of sunglasses that used green plastic shamrocks for lenses, I strolled down to Station Square looking like an Irish Michael Jackson. Well, a mid-80s Irish Michael Jackson.

At Steelhouse GG, T.C., Mrs. T.C., and I met up with Mrs. T.C.’s sister, their cousin, LRG, Toe, Nate, and NGF. Somehow, and at someone’s suggestion, GG, T.C., and I began double-fisting beers. GG deftly held both of his beers in one hand while he boogied with a random cute girl nearby; Toe entertained us with some amateur auteur work; Nate, T.C. and I drank ourselves further down the rabbit hole; Mrs. T.C., who’s three months pregnant, watched all of us, silently shaking her head—good times. After an hour or so, we decided to move to Saddle Ridge, which is two clubs over—but accessible through an internal series of doorways. Our group stopped just inside of the country-western-themed club to discuss something. Though I was standing near GG, I was glancing in another direction when I felt the tension point that anyone who has ever been in a fight knows. It’s that sudden fraction of a second when you can feel the air turn. It’s almost intangible; an involuntary reflex that pulses from the back of your neck and puts your head on a swivel and announces, “GO TIME!”

When I looked back, a fat gorilla of a guy had one hand on GG and the other cocked back, and my buddy was engaged in trying to fuse his fist with Gorilla’s face. I got between them, putting GG behind me, and T.C. was Johnny-on-the-spot, grabbing Gorilla from behind and tying up his arms. A bouncer, who must have felt that same ethereal warning that I had, grabbed GG and attempted to move him towards the front exit. GG broke free—I still wonder how—and proceeded to throw another two jabs into the face of Gorilla, who was still being restrained by T.C. I expected this large, hairy, imposing guy to try to retaliate physically; but instead, he complained to the bouncer. I couldn’t help but laugh. Someone hits you in the face while you’re being held back, and you don’t even struggle to get free? You just cry to Teacher?

Funny as it was that GG had embarrassed a large crybaby while breaking the only rule that his fiancée had given him, we now found ourselves in the parking lot instead of inside where all of the tasty, tasty beer was. We hailed a cab, and luckily the first one to appear was Henry, a Dominican cabbie who T.C. and Mrs. T.C. have known for a few years. He dropped us off at 1311 Tavern in the South Side. We caught up with some of our friends with whom we had originally walked down from Shannon’s, and got back to the business of drinking. And drinking. And drinking. And—you guessed it—drinking. I think I could hear my liver slosh around when I moved.

When I noticed that one of my thumbnails had split (probably during GG’s scuffle), I grabbed the female bartender’s attention and said, “Can I get a band-aid? I broke a nail.” The look on her face was…probably similar to the one on each of yours right now. Smirking, she handed me a couple from behind the bar, and I patched myself up. I’s a manly man, I yam.

This brings us to my haziest part of the day. It was only about 6:45 pm, and we decided to leave 1311 for another nearby bar that was several blocks off of Carson St. But what it was, why we went there, and how we got there are all a mystery to me. Some of our group had packed it in (most notably the T.C.s), while others like Shannon and Dr. Kelly had gone to Bar Louie in Station Square. While I remember our brief stay at the mystery bar, my next clear memory is walking down Carson, carrying on a mental debate over whether to catch a cab or hoof it to Bar Louie (given that catching a cab would be next to impossible). It was about 7:30 pm, I was all alone, and I had lost my shamrock sunglasses. Luckily, The Prince of Ligonier called me as I approached the corner of 18th. He was a street away with his wife and their friends, so I hooked a left when I reached 17th and we ended up at a small bar called Dish.

I was still throwing back beers, but my drunk seemed to almost be going backwards; each sip brought with it a touch more sobriety. Prince’s wife wasn’t in the same boat; she was twisted like braids in Jamaica. She frequently found herself hugging someone—whether it were Prince, one of their friends, or even me—merely as a means of keeping herself upright.

We moved on to Intermission Lounge on Carson, collecting Girlfriend (and a green fez) along the way. By about 10:30, though, I had clearly hit my saturation point. I was fairly sober, and could not physically put more beer down my esophagus. Girlfriend and I made our way to Tom’s Diner to soak up some of the booze before heading home. Shortly after our food arrived, TK made an impromptu appearance with some friends of his. Spotting my unattended plate of pancakes, he plopped down in front of them and began ferociously chopping and tearing at them with a fork. There have been kills in the Serengeti that weren’t as gruesome. A female friend of TK's, who seemed to be charged with babysitting, looked on with a mixture of pity, humor, and disgust that I’ve never seen before.

Well…that I’ve never been consciously aware of.

We got back to my apartment well after midnight, and I woke up Sunday morning feeling fresh and clean. Where are all the haters at now?

Drunks Say the Darndest Things

With apologies to Bill Cosby, the adage “kids say the darndest things” is bull. Anyone who thinks that has lived a boring life. Not only are drunken people a better source of quotables, laughing at them is far more sensible than laughing at children. A child, in most cases, has no reason not to think what he or she says; a drunk, in most cases, has no reason to say what he or she thinks.

The following are some my favorite lines slurred and moments stumbled through by my friends and me over the years.

• After a long Saturday night at the bar a few years ago, I sat with Tony, K-Man, Stacy, and Bill in a Denny’s booth. The waitress brought us our drinks and then left to give us time to peruse the menu. Stacy, who had not let the fact that she was a girl stop her from keeping up a respectable pace in the booze race that night, was twisted—to put it lightly. Taking a sip from a straw, she recoiled in disgust. Angry, she looked at Bill and barked, “Why didn’t you TELL me this tea was unsweetened!”
  
  “Stacy,” I offered from across the table, “That’s water.”

• During our 2003 trip to Ocean City, my friend (“Mike P.”) found himself in an enviable position. He had landed on the radars of two females: an attractive girl (“Amazon”) in our vacationing group of PA refugees, and an equally attractive friend of a friend of T.C.’s. Mike and Amazon were amongst several of us that went to Seacrets on the final night of the trip. He left early, though, when the other girl came by and picked him up. I left not long after with another four friends, and when we arrived home Uncle Paulie was talking to two less-than-desirable randoms on the front steps of our rented condos.
  
  U.P.: “Where’s [Mike P.]?”
  Me: “He’s moved on to number two.”
  Random 1: “‘Number two’ what?”
  Me: “His number two girl for the night. He left number one at the club.”
  Random 1: “Would I be a ‘number one’ or a ‘number two’?”
  Me: *screwfaced* “You’d be a four!”

• This past New Year’s Eve, TD broke out the Jell-O shots midway through the night. About seven of us—including a girl who we’ll just call “Blonde Moment”—tossed back the first of many rounds; afterwards, however, Blonde Moment was a little confused. With complete sincerity, she leaned into TD and said, “Boy, this sure does taste different then the Jell-O I bring to work everyday!”

• During the aforementioned-Ocean City trip, my boy Nick and I were standing outside late one night talking. Our friend Heather, a 5’2” sorority girl, came bounding up to us.
  
  Heather: “Did you ever do an Irish Car Bomb? I did my first one tonight, and snnihh sevveeehh shhifff flevv!!”
  
  In unison, Nick and I looked at each other incredulously, and then back at her. “What?”
  
  Heather: “I szzshh thhtepp wwsh…*pauses, frustrated; turns to leave*…Fuck you guys!”

• One Saturday, Dupa and I spent the night drinking in Ligonier. Returning to his parents’ house at the end of the night, we decided to feast on some leftovers. After putting a plate with a healthy cut of lasagna into the microwave, I paused. Staring at it lost, I finally asked, “Hey, where’s the 'lasagna' button?”

• While sitting on the deck at an Ocean City pool bar, Uncle Paulie and T.C.’s wife (though at the time they weren’t married yet) watched T.C. (who was sporting a sunburn after a couple of days of fun in the sun) and I play Marco Polo with some children. One little girl in particular had taken a shining to T.C., and proceeded to playfully chase him around the pool.
  
  Mrs. T.C.: “I don’t know if I should be jealous of that little girl for chasing my boyfriend around.”
  U.P.: “She doesn’t know any better. He’s red and fat; she thinks he’s Santa Claus.”

• In college I was an officer in our Black Student Union. In my junior year we organized a bowling outing one Friday night. My roommate Dame and I, in full party mode, packed several cans of beer into my bookbag to take along with us. Our group climbed onto a chartered school bus parked in front of the student center, and Dame soon asked me to pass the bookbag back to him.
  
  A short while later, however, a last-minute scheduling problem arose that meant we would have to wait about an hour to leave for the bowling alley. Dame handed the bookbag back to me as we departed the bus, but he neglected to warn me that it was still unzipped. As I walked off the last step of the bus, the bag flung open, sending about 10 cans of beer tumbling to the ground. Instinctively looking up to see who was watching, we locked eyes with the Dean of Students, who was only about 40 feet away. Dame, in a moment of alcoholic ingenuity, announced unconvincingly, “Oh no—our SODAS!”

• I awoke reasonably disoriented on the third morning of a four day trip to Ocean City in 2005. Looking around the hotel room that Dupa, Eric, Nate and I were sharing, I tried to wrap my head around the situation.
  
  Me: “Wait, is today Saturday?”
  Eric: “Yep.”
  Me: *still confused* “What happened to Friday?”

Working Hard Over Labor Day Weekend

The booze. Oh the booze.

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday were a marathon tag-team wrestling match: in one corner were me and my common sense; in the opposite corner were beer and liquor. I’d say we won, but I’m not really sure if there is a winner in that kind of battle. I started the weekend downing Patron straight from the bottle at a birthday party. I ended it facedown on a futon in Baby Joey’s computer room. In between were some stories (of course), but my consistent incoherence will only permit me to remember a few of the many. I’ll go over them to the best of my ability.


Friday

I kicked off the weekend with my friend TK’s birthday party, which featured about twelve rowdy guys and…two girls. You’ve got to love those 6 to 1 odds. Correction: 11 to 1 odds (two of the people at the party were a couple). It’s not like I ever put women before booze, though, so it really wasn’t that big of a deal to me. And it didn’t seem to slow down anyone else, either. When I arrived, Dupa and another guy were heading out to pick up a second keg. After I walked into the apartment, I was immediately directed to the ice luge—oh yeah. Some of the guys chugged beer out of a boot-shaped glass named “Das Boot.” My boy Cap [not TJ’s Cap] ran outside after tangling with the Boot, bent over in TK’s front yard, and pulled the trigger, unleashing a torrent of digestion. Then he went inside, washed his hands and face, and filled up Das Boot again.

Eventually, our group made it over to the Saloon of Mt. Lebanon—much to the dismay of the people in the bar. The birthday boy drank directly from his own pitcher, one of our buddies decided to drink while standing with his pants around his ankles, and we all took turns sexually harassing the only female in our group (the couple left before we got drunk enough to try to drive a wedge between them). To put it succinctly: good times.


Saturday

I started the day still drunk. Of course, it wasn’t until I got to the barbershop that my inebriation really hit me. My barber probably needed to chug some water after inhaling alcohol fumes for 20 minutes while doing my fade.

Then it was off to a live draft for one of my fantasy football leagues. The 2008 season for the “Playa Haters” can go either way—on the one hand, I stocked up on some pretty decent talent; on the other, a lot of that talent plays for the Colts. One good cocaine-&-hooker party in Indy, and my season’s done for.

I had a couple of beers at the draft, but by the time I got home that night I was half-certain that I wanted to take it easy until the next day’s cookout. And the thought of saving some cash was appealing, since I have a bachelor party of epic proportions coming up at the end of the month (Chief’s). And it’s not like I could find a place to get obliterated on a Saturday night without spending much money, right?

Wrong. My boy Nate called me from his girlfriend’s apartment, which is in The ‘Side, and said that he was thinking about hanging out in my hood that night. This made me remember that a friend of ours now works at one of the better bars in Shadyside. Oh f—… Several rounds of Long Island Iced Teas, Red Bull & Vodkas, shots, and beer later, the three of us had a combined tab of around $45. Nate’s girl (NGF), who is all of 5’2” 0lbs, was silly-drunk. As he and I sat at the bar talking, she would be on the other side of him giving a thumbs up like Borat. I’d laugh, he’d snap his head around, she’d stop and giggle; he’d turn back around to continue the convo, and she’d do it all over again. During the walk home, he and I often paced out ahead of her. We’d turn around to check on NGF, who was usually laughing hysterically at everything or nothing, and then slow down so that she could catch up. Once, when we looked back to see what her laughter was for, we found her laying on her side in a front yard after losing her balance and falling. The next afternoon, I sent Nate a picture of her Borat pose; he responded, “Yeah, she’s feeling it today.”


Sunday

The weekend’s centerpiece, its marquee event, was the now-annual Labor Day Party at the house of Baby Joey and his girlfriend TD. Kegs, Jell-O shots, young pros at this drinking business, and… a Chihuahua? (I’ll explain shortly.)

Joey and TD haven’t been chronicled all too heavily in this blog. But, just in case you have any question about their ability to party, I call your attention to the picture to the right. That’s the actual welcome mat that greets you as you walk up the steps into their house.

And Joey’s pedigree, in particular, is impressive. He is the little brother of Esq (whose comments and exploits have found their way onto this page in the past), and a son of a woman (“Delightful”) more than capable of holding her own in a conversation. Delightful is white, but Joey and Esq are each half Black. While talking to a group of us early in the evening, Delightful paused, looked at Joey, and declared, “You could’ve been Obama!”

Our friend (“Hollywood”) does some landscaping, and adorned Joey’s backyard with a dollar sign (right) for the occasion. And that’s not just a random nickname crafted by yours truly—he was actually calling himself “Hollywood” last week. This is hilarious to me, because: (a.) it reminds me of Meshach Taylor’s character from “Mannequin”; and (b.) I already tease him about his metrosexuality on a consistent basis. He advised Joey’s 10 year old niece to tell her baseball coach that she didn’t want to play catcher anymore, because it’s inherently bad for the knees. My retort—though I had to say it low enough that only Hollywood, and none of the minors running around, heard—was, “Yeah, you should listen to him; he’s been a ‘catcher’ his whole life.”

Speaking of questionable orientations… Ashhad was in attendance—rather, a shell of what used to be “Ashhad” was in attendance. When I arrived, he was seated at a table next to his girlfriend, who was holding a little Chihuahua puppy…in a pink and blue dress. You just can’t make that up. I later looked over and found him holding the dog, and I nearly tripped over myself running over to snap a picture. Just about every one of our friends now has a copy of it. And Ashhad absolutely hates me for it. Hey, it wasn’t my choice for him to show up at a Labor Day party looking like a Pakistani Mugatu. And women wonder why I’ve avoided getting into a serious relationship over the past few years. What guy wants to end up like that?

Early in the evening, though, I came to a realization. This is the third party that I have attended at Baby Joey and TD’s house, and at each the first half of the day has been a “family” segment. Little kids run to and fro while the adults make a futile effort to curb their language and drunken mannerisms. My suggestion (with absolutely no consideration towards the hosts’ finances, time, and effort) is that they hold a family party on Saturday and the adult party on Sunday. Need further evidence that this would be a good idea? Joey’s aforementioned-10 year old niece tossed a frisbee around with another child. She eventually threw it when her playmate wasn’t looking, and the toy sailed straight into the face of a much younger child standing behind him. Hollywood, Ashhad and I watched it happen, all wincing and stifling laughter. When the toddler began crying hysterically, and the older party guests all asked who threw the frisbee, the ten year old turned and pointed at me. And despite the fact that the toss had come from about a foot below my arm reach, adults all around the yard began chastising me for beaning a little girl in the face.

As the night wore on, we slowly polished off the better of two kegs and all of TD’s Jell-O shots. Tony and I played some inspired beer pong, and reaffirmed our place among the top duos in the game. With Joey and Hollywood down to their last cup in one match, I declared, “This is over!” and sank the shot. Then I walked into the house, and on my way to the restroom announced to the guests gathered in the living room, “I am the greatest beer pong player EVER!” Did I mention that I drank a lot of beer and Jell-O shots?

Hollywood persuaded Baby Joey and I to make a run down the street to the bar for shots of tequila. I think his eloquent sales pitch consisted of, “C’mmooonnnn.” After tossing back the first one, I wondered why I hadn’t just stayed at the party. Then Tony, TD, and several other girls from the party walked in, upset that we had gone without them. And I remembered that I run with drunks; staying at the party was never really an option.

Another round or two of shots went down, and we all returned to the house. One of TD’s friends, “1L,” was drunk enough that she had to lie on her back on a couch while talking to the rest of us, who were all standing. TD, who is by no means a large girl, packed away the last of a dessert dish. Hollywood, who had brought an overnight bag and a change of clothes, waited until none of us were looking and stumbled off to his car, peeling off down the street on his way home (he made it there safely, amazingly). And if the level of a person’s intoxication can be measured by how out of character his or her actions are, then the award for “Most Hammered” goes to Baby Joey, who stood at the sink, casually washing the dishes.

And with that, goes the summer. It’s been an interesting one, to say the least. Now I have to brace for months of cold, snow, and ice. I’m taking a bottle of Glenfiddich to a cave—someone wake me in May.